Journey's End
by johnsarmylady
Summary: It should have been a straightforward journey home from the airport, but John should have realised NOTHING is EVER straightforward with Sherlock. So instead of Baker Street, the doctor finds himself being dragged off to the West Country looking for some identity thieves! Dedicated to the seven ladies of the She-Lock Tour 2014. Rated K


**This one-shot is based on the real adventures of some intrepid She-locks...and a night they'll never forget! However, to protect the innocent, I've written it as a Sherlock adventure and dedicated it to the 7 She-Lock tour members 2014  
>Special thanks to MapleleafCameo for checking this over for me :)<br>Disclaimer: Don't own, don't profit, just playing...**

"_Follow the road for fifteen miles."_

"That's very precise." John said sleepily, trying to keep his eyes open as the nighttime landscape flashed past the car.

"Of course it's precise John, it's a computer." Sherlock's voice held its usual sneer, the one he reserved for those times when he felt his flatmate was being particularly dense.

John just grinned, a flash of white teeth caught in the passing streetlights. Sliding his eyes sideways Sherlock saw it, and frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing, just…." the doctor adjusted his sitting position, sitting up straighter. "…well, I didn't expect you to need a sat nav. I thought you'd have the route firmly in your brain, no external map needed."

Sherlock gave an irritable huff.

"I've never had to drive from Heathrow to Bournemouth before." He paused, then added grumpily "Why did you have to go to America anyway?" He sounded like a petulant child.

"Because," John replied patiently "I had to pick up something special from an old friend, to deliver to another old friend – which by the way I had planned to do tomorrow, so tell me – why do we need to go to Bournemouth?"

"Case" Came the short answer.

"Tell me?"

Sherlock proceeded to outline an unusual text that he had received, telling of a meeting taking place in a rented house in a village just outside the popular seaside town, an international gathering of women noted for taking other people's identities and using them over and over again.

"Identity theft? Common enough," John was wide awake now, between the odd 'case' that Sherlock was dragging him off to, and the droning voice of the Sat Nav he stood no chance of catching up on the sleep. "So where's the puzzle in all of this?"

"The puzzle John, is that so far there doesn't seem to have been a crime committed, despite the fact that this gang had been operating for two years or more….yes, alright! I heard you the first time!" This last was shouted at the Sat Nav as the bored female voice repeated her instructions for a second time.

A shout of laughter burst from the man in the passenger seat. Sherlock glared, and then turned his attention back to the road, studiously ignoring the way his flatmate was gasping for breath, as he was laughing so hard.

"Calm down, Sherlock," he said eventually, still struggling to get his breath and his giggles under control. "It's just a computer…."

"_You have reached your destination."_

Those five words momentarily silenced both men.

"This isn't Bournemouth." Sherlock eventually found his voice as he pulled up at the kerb. "This is Brighton."

"Brighton?" John yelped. "What the bloody hell are we doing in Brighton?" His head turned from side to side, looking out into the darkness, trying find some confirmation of where they were.

Leaning across, Sherlock tapped his arm and pointed to the road name. Across the top of the metal sign was the legend 'County Borough of Brighton'.

"Surely we shouldn't be anywhere near Brighton." But John found himself talking to the top of Sherlock's head as the younger man bent to check the postcode showing on the machines small screen.

"I know that John."

"Wrong postcode?"

"No." Sherlock practically snarled.

"Oh."

Ignoring his flatmate, the detective cleared the postcode from the machine, and then consulted his mobile phone and entered the full address.

"_The route is being calculated."_

"She doesn't have a very attractive voice, does she?" John observed blandly, staring out of the side window at the Regency style terraced houses in the street.

"It's a machine – I don't think it's supposed to have an 'attractive voice'"

The older man's shoulders shook with mirth – at least he could see the funny side of things despite this seemingly endless journey.

"Nor is it funny!" Sherlock slammed the engine into gear, and despite the lateness of the hour pulled into a u-turn then sped away with a squeal of tyres upon tarmac.

Once they were back on the main A road Sherlock explained where his investigations had taken him, and how he had eventually tracked down first the letting agent, and then the address where the perpetrators were staying. Clear indications were that the whole gang would be in situ for at least a week, planning how best to use the aforementioned identities.

The young detective was so preoccupied talking to John that he was following the Sat Nav instructions without thought. It wasn't until his passenger suddenly sat up and took note of the road ahead that it occurred to him that something might be wrong.

"Hey, we passed that accident before, about half an hour ago!" John exclaimed, peering out of the windscreen.

The car slowed as Sherlock followed the diversion signs for the second time that night, and his eyes strayed to the blue flashing lights and crumpled vehicles.

"Oi, look where you're going or we're going to end up like that lot."

"Nonsense John." Pulling over into a layby, Sherlock unclipped his seat belt and half climbed over his seat, reaching down into the rear foot well of the car.

The road atlas landed on John's lap with a loud slap.

"Navigate."

"What?"

"Well, you learned to read maps in the army didn't you? So navigate."

Muttering something about this not being Afghanistan, the ex-soldier peered out of the window looking for a landmark, a road number or a place name.

Soon they were on route – the right route this time – and they drove in a companionable silence, which was broken only by John's occasional directions as they followed the map.

John heaved a gusty sigh of relief as they finally turned into the rough, unadopted road leading to the address on Sherlock's phone.

Despite it being nearly four am – their journey having taken nearly three times longer than it should – there were still lights on in the house. Quietly climbing from the car the detective and his blogger shared a glance, nodded and approached the door.

"Bloody hell, it took you long enough to get here!"

"Lestrade? What are you doing here?"

The grey haired detective grinned and stepped back from the door, inviting the two men in.

"This group of 'identity thieves' contacted me a while back to ask what you two were really like."

"Us? Why?"

"Because he –" Lestrade pointed to John. "- he has made you both famous.

They entered a large lounge, where six women sat, each one with either an iPad, a laptop, or in most cases notebooks and pencils.

Indicating the first of the occupants the police officer started the introductions.

"This is Jack. She, apparently, tells your stories with the aid of an enigmatic 'other person' who was unable to travel over here due to work commitments. I understand she has given your adventures a more classic styling."

Jack smiled up at them from behind her laptop screen.

"And next to her is Lucy36 – Lucy to her friends – everyone says she keeps your adventures light and fun."

John rolled his eyes at the older man's words, while Sherlock huffed and looked anywhere but at the young woman.

Next was a deceptively innocent looking lady, smiling up at them from the couch, her iPad on her lap.

"They call me Mrs P," she said, shaking John's proffered hand.

"Mrs P turns your cases into brilliant poems." A slim, feisty Canadian crossed to sit next to her friend and also shook John's hand, holding on a little longer than convention usually allowed. "I'm MapleleafCameo, but my friends generally call me M."

"And dare we ask what you've done to my blog?"

"Oh, I made you into Greek gods – but don't worry, you were very modern Greek gods that had lived hundreds of lives, meeting time after time, until you ended up in the here and now."

With a chuckle Lestrade waggled his eyebrows at the blush burning the tips of John's ears, making the ladies laugh.

Meanwhile Sherlock's keen eyesight had spotted two bears sitting, minding their own business, on the coffee table.

"That bear," He pointed to a thin red bear in a grey coat. "It's wearing a Belstaff and scarf just like mine."

"And his friend wears a cable knit jumper." The owner of the distinctly American voice picked up both bears and sat them on her lap. "Meet Sherlock and John Bears."

"And you are?" Sherlock demanded trying to ignore the glare from two pairs of button eyes.

"Mattie." The young lady in question refused to be cowed by his overbearing attitude. "I made these bears, and they help me re-tell your cases as bear adventures."

A dirty laugh forestalled the consulting detective's comments.

"Mattie, did you mean bear….or **bare**?"

"JAL, behave yourself." Jack laughed

"And what kind of adventures do you give us…er…JAL?"

"Don't ask," Lucy looked at John, all wide eyes and French accent. "please…."

"Oh they're not that bad." M laughed "Funny, sometimes a bit rude…"

"And she just has a dirty mind, so a lot she says can be taken several ways." Jack added.

In the silence that settled around them John let his gaze sweep across the assembled women, then suddenly, like floodgates bursting, he started to giggle.

"What?"

"Don't you see Sherlock? Their only 'crime' is to steal our names and our cases….and Greg here set us up…."

"So, all this for nothing?" The younger man couldn't see the humour in the situation.

"Actually Mr Holmes, we do have a case for you, if you feel up to the challenge." Mrs P put her iPad aside and smiled sweetly up at him.

"It's bound to be boring."

"Manners Sherlock."

"No, that's fine John." M spoke up. "You see Mr Holmes we know you, we know Dr Watson , your brother Mycroft and even Mr Lestrade here, but all you know of us are our pen names."

"So," Jack picked up the tale, "we are here for another week, we won't tell you when we arrived, or where from…."

"Nor when or how we are leaving." Added M.

"Your challenge Mr Holmes, should you chose to accept it, is to discover the identity thieves' true identities…."

John was about to protest when he saw the smug grin on his friend's face.

"Right." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "The game is on!"


End file.
